


A Delicate Game

by Gileonnen



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gentle Power Exchange Dynamics, Guilt and Reconciliation, Infinite Forest Hide and Seek, M/M, Saint-14's Love of Headbutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Osiris won't come to the Tower, so Saint-14 goes to find him.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 192





	A Delicate Game

Osiris knows every trick of the Infinite Forest--how to partition branches to run simultaneous simulations; how to step between past and future as though between rocks in a stream. How to slow time to a trickle as he glides on dawn-bright wings through a horde of foes. How to be seen, and dreaded. How to pass unnoticed through the corridors of unnumbered centuries.

Thus, he must conclude that if Saint-14 has found him, it's because he wants to be found.

So much of him is still the same that Osiris aches to see him. The high crest of his helmet; the violet ribbons woven into his armor; the way he carries himself, as though the world is a place of miracles and he is blessed to be in it. Osiris half-expects him to charge across the simulant stone with his arms flung wide, ready to crush him in an embrace. He craves it, a little. The part of him that has walked a thousand might-have-beens so desperately wants everything to be the same between them.

But Saint-14 hesitates at the foot of a gleaming brass stair. He looks up at Osiris, hands on his hips, unmoving. Grief wells in Osiris's throat, smooth as stone, sharp as sorrow.

In the end, Osiris comes down to him.

"I waited for you in the Tower," says Saint, low.

"I am not welcome there."

Saint reaches for his hand, and Osiris lets him take it. He sinks to his knees and presses a kiss to Osiris's knuckles. The cool metal of his face warms beneath Osiris's hand, and for a moment, everything is as it has always been--Solar Light feeding Void, warmth passing between them undiminished. "My friend," says Saint. "I would have welcomed you."

Osiris turns his hand to cup Saint's armored cheek, stroking down to the hard edges and spikes of his pauldron. "I fear I have left much unsaid."

"There will be time to say it, and that is thanks to you. But for now, there is only one thing I must hear--am I still yours?" He looks up, and Osiris can feel the weight of his gaze behind his helm. The unshakable faith that led him into the Infinite Forest so long ago, chasing echoes down endless branches.

He is used to faith. His followers have made a prophet of him, and devoted themselves unstintingly to his teachings. But Saint-14's faith has survived the machine gun clamor of the Dark Ages, the sopping bivouacs in woodlands haunted with Fallen, the betrayal of abandonment in the Forest. Saint-14 has seen Osiris at his most petty and cruel, tasted his rage and disappointment, and still come to kneel at his feet. This faith, Osiris cannot dismiss.

It hurts almost as much to be forgiven as to be beyond forgiveness, but for the first time in years (millennia), it feels like a healing hurt.

"You will always be mine," says Osiris. His eyes sting. He falls to his knees and catches up Saint's hands, kissing them through the fabric of his veil, shaping Saint's palm to his cheek. Saint gathers him up to his chest and holds him as he has a thousand times before--as though he is a shield against the world, and Osiris safe within his arms.

There had been a time when Osiris despised that feeling. He can't remember why.

"I have a ship," says Saint as he strokes Osiris's back. "Could take some time to catch up. Get reacquainted with each other." It's impossible to miss the implication.

Osiris looks out over the Infinite Forest, its platforms shivering in and out being, its stairs and gates and spires crawling with vines. A dozen echoes split off from him, each shining with golden light, ready to patrol the shifting branches.

Then one of them catches sight of Saint-14, and soon they are all gathered around him, reaching out to touch his shoulder, laying a hand on his back, pressing a kiss to his brow. One of them turns aside, unwilling to be caught in a moment of feeling. One draws Saint-14 to his feet and tips up his helm to kiss his mouth, long and feeling. One departs without a word.

 _I was afraid I'd lost you,_ the rest of them say. Or, _I have searched for you across uncountable lifetimes,_ or _I should never have turned my back on you._ Or _I love you, I love you, I have always loved you._

"You could never lose me," Saint tells them. "You've made mistakes, but your heart is good. You refused to give up when I was lost. There is much work for us to do, but we will be stronger together."

"I love you," he says earnestly, as though it is an easy thing to say.

And then the two of them are alone. Osiris clears his throat. "I would like to see your ship," he says.

Saint-14 only laughs and drags his helmet off, sweeping Osiris into a swelling, searing kiss.

* * *

When he gets Saint naked at last, Osiris has to pause to take him in. The familiar hard angles of his shoulders, the polymer ridges of his abdomen; his proud jaw and his keen violet eyes. He brushes his palm over the hard curve of Saint's hip and remembers the first time they'd touched like this--sheltering in the ruin of an ancient observatory, huddled together on a single thin sleeping bag. Learning each other in the darkness, by feel, and listening to each other's hushed sounds of pleasure. Learning to make Saint shout his release to the stars.

He knows Saint's body better than his own, now. When he raises his head to mouth at Saint's neck, the taste is as familiar as an algebraic formula: spinmetal and cordite, lubricant and the faint tang of cytogel. He presses Saint back to the edge of the bunk and urges him to sit, then climbs up to straddle his lap and kiss the hard line of his mouth.

Saint's broad hands unfold over his back like wings. His fingertips trace down Osiris's spine, firm and unyielding; he drags his hands along every taut muscle, every crackling bone, until Osiris begins to feel the tension melt away.

"Put your hands down," he says, and it's a gamble--an old game, left behind with so much else when Osiris fled into the Forest and left Saint to follow. But Saint had asked Osiris if he was still his, and Osiris longs so desperately for it to be so.

Saint lets his hands fall, bracing them against the lip of the bunk. "I am yours to command," he says, although the violet light of his modulator flickers with mirth.

"No commands," says Osiris. His chest feels hot and tight with gratitude. "Only ... a request. Let me take care of you."

Saint chuckles. "Is the greatest joy I know, to take care of another--that, and bashing in a Minotaur's chest with my head."

"An unfortunate limitation of your quarters," says Osiris drily. "I could simulate one, if we were still in the Forest."

For a moment, Saint seems almost to be considering the offer, and so Osiris runs his palm down Saint's chest to cut off that line of thought. His fingertips pick out every ridge and joint, every beveled edge and sheathed actuator, seeking the familiar, sensitive spots that he's long ago mapped. Saint inhales sharply and leans back, letting himself be touched.

By now, his heavy cock is hard against Osiris's. It's so easy to reach down between them and take Saint in hand; his wrist remembers the angle, and his palm remembers the curve. His mouth waters at the memory of the taste.

He wraps his free arm around Saint's shoulders and pulls himself closer, crowding against him, until the heat of his body fogs the matte finish on Saint's chest. He begins to work Saint harder, now--just the way he likes, all merciless grip and rough drag of flesh over synthetic skin. "Yes!" Saint shouts, bucking up into Osiris's hand; his fingers twitch on the edge of the bed, but he never lets go.

He's so good--so unreservedly good, as though it costs him nothing. As though it really pleases him to be what someone else needs.

His hand curls tight at the back of Saint's neck. He buries his face in the dip at the center of Saint's chest, seeking the soothing cold of the Void and finding only his own heat caught between them. His hand pumps Saint's cock, harder with every stroke, and Saint groans encouragement into his ear.

When at last Saint shudders and howls his exultation to the Mercurian skies, Osiris almost feels a part of himself released.

Saint bends down for a kiss, and Osiris seals his lips against Saint's mouth with all the feeling he can't put into words.


End file.
